by Walter Scott
CHAPTER XIII
A MORE RATIONAL DAY THAN THE LAST
The Baron of Bradwardine, mounted on an active and well-managedhorse, and seated on a demi-pique saddle, with deep housings toagree with his livery, was no bad representative of the oldschool. His light-coloured embroidered coat, and superbly barredwaistcoat, his brigadier wig, surmounted by a small gold-lacedcocked-hat, completed his personal costume; but he was attended bytwo well-mounted servants on horseback, armed with holster-pistols.
In this guise he ambled forth over hill and valley, the admirationof every farm-yard which they passed in their progress, till, 'lowdown in a grassy vale,' they found David Gellatley leading twovery tall deer greyhounds, and presiding over half a dozen curs,and about as many bare-legged and bare-headed boys, who, toprocure the chosen distinction of attending on the chase, had notfailed to tickle his ears with the dulcet appellation of MaisterGellatley, though probably all and each had hooted him on formeroccasions in the character of daft Davie. But this is no uncommonstrain of flattery to persons in office, nor altogether confinedto the barelegged villagers of Tully-Veolan; it was in fashionSixty Years Since, is now, and will be six hundred years hence, ifthis admirable compound of folly and knavery, called the world,shall be then in existence.
These Gillie-wet-foots, as they were called, were destined to beatthe bushes, which they performed with so much success, that, afterhalf an hour's search, a roe was started, coursed, and killed; theBaron following on his white horse, like Earl Percy of yore, andmagnanimously flaying and embowelling the slain animal (which, heobserved, was called by the French chasseurs, faire la curee) withhis own baronial couteau de chasse. After this ceremony, heconducted his guest homeward by a pleasant and circuitous route,commanding an extensive prospect of different villages and houses,to each of which Mr. Bradwardine attached some anecdote of historyor genealogy, told in language whimsical from prejudice andpedantry, but often respectable for the good sense and honourablefeelings which his narrative displayed, and almost always curious,if not valuable, for the information they contained.
The truth is, the ride seemed agreeable to both gentlemen, becausethey found amusement in each other's conversation, although theircharacters and habits of thinking were in many respects totallyopposite. Edward, we have informed the reader, was warm in hisfeelings, wild and romantic in his ideas and in his taste ofreading, with a strong disposition towards poetry. Mr Bradwardinewas the reverse of all this, and piqued himself upon stalkingthrough life with the same upright, starched, stoical gravitywhich distinguished his evening promenade upon the terrace ofTully-Veolan, where for hours together--the very model of oldHardyknute--
Stately stepp'd he east the wa', And stately stepp'd he west
As for literature, he read the classic poets, to be sure, and the'Epithalamium' of Georgius Buchanan and Arthur Johnston's Psalms,of a Sunday; and the 'Deliciae Poetarum Scotorum,' and Sir DavidLindsay's 'Works', and Barbour's 'Brace', and Blind Harry's'Wallace', and 'The Gentle Shepherd', and 'The Cherry and TheSlae.'
But though he thus far sacrificed his time to the Muses, he would,if the truth must be spoken, have been much better pleased had thepious or sapient apothegms, as well as the historical narratives,which these various works contained, been presented to him in theform of simple prose. And he sometimes could not refrain fromexpressing contempt of the 'vain and unprofitable art of poem-making', in which, he said,'the only one who had excelled in histime was Allan Ramsay, the periwigmaker.'
[Footnote: The Baron ought to have remembered that the joyousAllan literally drew his blood from the house of the noble earlwhom he terms--
Dalhousie of an old descent My stoup, my pride, my ornament.]
But although Edward and he differed TOTO COELO, as the Baron wouldhave said, upon this subject, yet they met upon history as on aneutral ground, in which each claimed an interest. The Baron,indeed, only cumbered his memory with matters of fact, the cold,dry, hard outlines which history delineates. Edward, on thecontrary, loved to fill up and round the sketch with the colouringof a warm and vivid imagination, which gives light and life to theactors and speakers in the drama of past ages. Yet with tastes soopposite, they contributed greatly to each other's amusement. Mr.Bradwardine's minute narratives and powerful memory supplied toWaverley fresh subjects of the kind upon which his fancy loved tolabour, and opened to him a new mine of incident and of character.And he repaid the pleasure thus communicated by an earnestattention, valuable to all story-tellers, more especially to theBaron, who felt his habits of self-respect flattered by it; andsometimes also by reciprocal communications, which interested Mr.Bradwardine, as confirming or illustrating his own favouriteanecdotes. Besides, Mr. Bradwardine loved to talk of the scenes ofhis youth, whichl had been spent in camps and foreign lands, andhad many interesting particulars to tell of the generals underwhom he had served and the actions he had witnessed.
Both parties returned to Tully-Veolan in great good-humour witheach other; Waverley desirous of studying more attentively what heconsidered as a singular and interesting character, gifted with amemory containing a curious register of ancient and modernanecdotes; and Bradwardine disposed to regard Edward as puer (orrather juvenis) bonae spei et magnae indolis, a youth devoid ofthat petulant volatility which is impatient of, or vilipends, theconversation and advice of his seniors, from which he predictedgreat things of his future success and deportment in life. Therewas no other guest except Mr. Rubrick, whose information anddiscourse, as a clergyman and a scholar, harmonised very well withthat of the Baron and his guest.
Shortly after dinner, the Baron, as if to show that his temperancewas not entirely theoretical, proposed a visit to Rose'sapartment, or, as he termed it, her troisieme etage. Waverley wasaccordingly conducted through one or two of those long awkwardpassages with which ancient architects studied to puzzle theinhabitants of the houses which they planned, at the end of whichMr. Bradwardine began to ascend, by two steps at once, a verysteep, narrow, and winding stair, leaving Mr. Rubrick and Waverleyto follow at more leisure, while he should announce their approachto his daughter.
After having climbed this perpendicular corkscrew until theirbrains were almost giddy, they arrived in a little matted lobby,which served as an anteroom to Rose's sanctum sanctorum, andthrough which they entered her parlour. It was a small, butpleasant apartment, opening to the south, and hung with tapestry;adorned besides with two pictures, one of her mother, in the dressof a shepherdess, with a bell-hoop; the other of the Baron, in histenth year, in a blue coat, embroidered waistcoat, laced hat, andbag-wig, with a bow in his hand. Edward could not help smiling atthe costume, and at the odd resemblance between the round, smooth,red-cheeked, staring visage in the portrait, and the gaunt,bearded, hollow-eyed, swarthy features, which travelling, fatiguesof war, and advanced age, had bestowed on the original. The Baronjoined in the laugh. 'Truly,' he said,'that picture was a woman'sfantasy of my good mother's (a daughter of the Laird ofTulliellum, Captain Waverley; I indicated the house to you when wewere on the top of the Shinnyheuch; it was burnt by the Dutchauxiliaries brought in by the Government in 1715); I never satefor my pourtraicture but once since that was painted, and it wasat the special and reiterated request of the Marechal Duke ofBerwick.'
The good old gentleman did not mention what Mr. Rubrick afterwardstold Edward, that the Duke had done him this honour on account ofhis being the first to mount the breach of a fort in Savoy duringthe memorable campaign of 1709, and his having there defendedhimself with his half-pike for nearly ten minutes before anysupport reached him. To do the Baron justice, althoughsufficiently prone to dwell upon, and even to exaggerate, hisfamily dignity and consequence, he was too much a man of realcourage ever to allude to such personal acts of merit as he hadhimself manifested.
Miss Rose now appeared from the interior room of her apartment, towelcome her father and his friends. The little labours in whichshe had been employed obviously showed a natural taste, whichrequired only cultivation. Her f
ather had taught her French andItalian, and a few of the ordinary authors in those languagesornamented her shelves. He had endeavoured also to be herpreceptor in music; but as he began with the more abstrusedoctrines of the science, and was not perhaps master of themhimself, she had made no proficiency farther than to be able toaccompany her voice with the harpsichord; but even this was notvery common in Scotland at that period. To make amends, she sungwith great taste and feeling, and with a respect to the sense ofwhat she uttered that might be proposed in example to ladies ofmuch superior musical talent. Her natural good sense taught herthat, if, as we are assured by high authority, music be 'marriedto immortal verse,' they are very often divorced by the performerin a most shameful manner. It was perhaps owing to thissensibility to poetry, and power of combining its expression withthose of the musical notes, that her singing gave more pleasure toall the unlearned in music, and even to many of the learned, thancould have been communicated by a much finer voice and morebrilliant execution unguided by the same delicacy of feeling.
A bartizan, or projecting gallery, before the windows of herparlour, served to illustrate another of Rose's pursuits; for itwas crowded with flowers of different kinds, which she had takenunder her special protection. A projecting turret gave access tothis Gothic balcony, which commanded a most beautiful prospect.The formal garden, with its high bounding walls, lay below,contracted, as it seemed, to a mere parterre; while the viewextended beyond them down a wooded glen, where the small river wassometimes visible, sometimes hidden in copse. The eye might bedelayed by a desire to rest on the rocks, which here and thererose from the dell with massive or spiry fronts, or it might dwellon the noble, though ruined tower, which was here beheld in allits dignity, frowning from a promontory over the river. To theleft were seen two or three cottages, a part of the village, thebrow of the hill concealed the others. The glen, or dell, wasterminated by a sheet of water, called Loch Veolan, into which thebrook discharged itself, and which now glistened in the westernsun. The distant country seemed open and varied in surface, thoughnot wooded; and there was nothing to interrupt the view until thescene was bounded by a ridge of distant and blue hills, whichformed the southern boundary of the strath or valley. To thispleasant station Miss Bradwardine had ordered coffee.
The view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some familyanecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron toldwith great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending cragwhich rose near it had acquired the name of Saint Swithin's Chair.It was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrickmentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of arhyme quoted by Edgar in King Lear; and Rose was called upon tosing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by somevillage poet,
Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music,gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, andwhich his poetry so much wanted. I almost doubt if it can be readwith patience, destitute of these advantages, although Iconjecture the following copy to have been somewhat corrected byWaverley, to suit the taste of those who might not relish pureantiquity.
Saint Swithin's Chair
On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest, Ever beware that your couch be bless'd; Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.
For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride, And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side, Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.
The Lady she sat in Saint Swithin's Chair, The dew of the night has damp'd her hair: Her cheek was pale; but resolved and high Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, When his naked foot traced the midnight wold, When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night, And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on Saint Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air, Questions three, when he speaks the spell, He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege These three long years in battle and siege; News are there none of his weal or his woe, And fain the Lady his fate would know.
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;-- Is it the moody owl that shrieks? Or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream, The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow; The calm was more dreadful than raging storm, When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly Form!
'I am sorry to disappoint the company, especially CaptainWaverley, who listens with such laudable gravity; it is but afragment, although I think there are other verses, describing thereturn of the Baron from the wars, and how the lady was found"clay-cold upon the grounsill ledge.'"
'It is one of those figments,' observed Mr. Bradwardine, 'withwhich the early history of distinguished families was deformed inthe times of superstition; as that of Rome, and other ancientnations, had their prodigies, sir, the which you may read inancient histories, or in the little work compiled by JuliusObsequens, and inscribed by the learned Scheffer, the editor, tohis patron, Benedictus Skytte, Baron of Dudershoff.'
'My father has a strange defiance of the marvellous, CaptainWaverley,' observed Rose, 'and once stood firm when a whole synodof Presbyterian divines were put to the rout by a suddenapparition of the foul fiend.'
Waverley looked as if desirous to hear more.
'Must I tell my story as well as sing my song? Well--Once upon atime there lived an old woman, called Janet Gellatley, who wassuspected to be a witch, on the infallible grounds that she wasvery old, very ugly, very poor, and had two sons, one of whom wasa poet and the other a fool, which visitation, all theneighbourhood agreed, had come upon her for the sin of witchcraft.And she was imprisoned for a week in the steeple of the parishchurch, and sparely supplied with food, and not permitted to sleepuntil she herself became as much persuaded of her being a witch asher accusers; and in this lucid and happy state of mind wasbrought forth to make a clean breast, that is, to make openconfession of her sorceries, before all the Whig gentry andministers in the vicinity, who were no conjurors themselves. Myfather went to see fair play between the witch and the clergy; forthe witch had been born on his estate. And while the witch wasconfessing that the Enemy appeared, and made his addresses to heras a handsome black man,--which, if you could have seen poor oldblear-eyed Janet, reflected little honour on Apollyon's taste,--and while the auditors listened with astonished ears, and theclerk recorded with a trembling hand, she, all of a sudden,changed the low mumbling tone with which she spoke into a shrillyell, and exclaimed, "Look to yourselves! look to yourselves! Isee the Evil One sitting in the midst of ye." The surprise wasgeneral, and terror and flight its immediate consequences. Happywere those who were next the door; and many were the disastersthat befell hats, bands, cuffs, and wigs, before they could getout of the church, where they left the obstinate prelatist tosettle matters with the witch and her admirer at his own peril orpleasure.'
'Risu solvuntur tabulae,' said the Baron; 'when they recoveredtheir panic trepidation they were too much ashamed to bring anywakening of the process against Janet Gellatley.' [Footnote: SeeNote 11]
This anecdote led to a long discussion of
All those idle thoughts and fantasies, Devices, dreams, opinions unsound, Shows, visions, soothsays, and prophecies, And all that feigned is, as leasings, tales, and lies.
With such conversation, and the romantic legends which itintroduced, closed our hero's second evening in the house ofTully-Veolan.
